


In the Dark Places

by Magnetism_bind



Series: Rats in the Shadows [2]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Biting, Childhood issues, Cock Rings, Cock Slapping, Dreams, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Games, Rape, Violence, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to 'The Mess We're In.' In which Silva continues to torment Bond and Bond makes unwise decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dark Places

The tests come back negative. That’s something at least, Bond supposes. He has a celebratory drink and burns the results.

* * *

He’s always been M’s favorite for as long as he’s served queen and country. Ever since that very first day when they'd plucked him out of the jail cell he was sobering up in (arrested for disorderly conduct while on holiday from university) and hauled him up to London for an interview. The interview hadn’t gone particularly well, but something had obviously caught M’s eye.

* * *

Bond remembers his first reprimand. He’d gone after a suspect when his orders had been to stay put. When he'd reported back she’d castigated him soundly for that. His ears were burning and his face flushed when M finally dismissed him. For three days, Bond had worried that he’d be relegated to a desk job.

Then M had finally summoned him back to her office, and given him another assignment.

He would have done anything for her even then at the beginning. He still would. Silva knows this. Therein lays the crux of the problem.

* * *

When he walks through the offices now, they look at him even more than they used to. Now there’s an element of pity, as well as the usual intrigue in their eyes. Bond takes no notice.

He's irritable and frustrated and _bored_. They won’t let him leave London, not after what happened the last time when he tried to leave with M. Not while Silva’s on the loose, clearly watching their every move. M won’t reassign him. _This_ is the assignment, this is the job until it’s finished.

It’s a waiting game and Bond is no good with those.

* * *

It starts up again slowly. The familiar play of cat-and-mouse.

* * *

Bond goes to a pub, and gets drunk. Kisses the first blonde he likes the look of, and takes her back to his hotel room, letting her grope him in the elevator.

They fuck lewdly in the shower. The blonde’s mouth is wide and energetic and Bond stands under the spray with his mouth half open to catch the water as she goes down on him.

She leaves after they’re finished and Bond goes to bed with a scotch and water.

In the morning there’s a folded silk handkerchief and a single yellow rose waiting outside his door when he gets the paper. Bond opens the handkerchief and finds a condom wrapped in gilt paper and a note. _James, you really should be more careful._

He thinks about dropping the mess in the trash, but instead, he puts the condom in his pocket and puts the rose across his pillow.

Two can play at this game.

* * *

Returning to the bar that night, he looks around carefully, before selecting a middle-aged woman with faded blonde highlights and a smile that strikes Bond as a little sad. They return to his hotel room and he eats her out with her legs spread wide, stockings askew. When she's orgasmed twice under his tongue, Bond utelizes the condom and fucks her until her moans are loud enough for the neighboring suite, let alone whatever equipment Silva has in place.

Bond gives her the yellow rose when she leaves his room.

* * *

He still moves hotels, knowing it will do little good.

* * *

In the mornings Bond runs, mapping out the streets of London in his mind over and over again. Trying to stay focused. Trying to distract himself.

Nothing stops the dreams.

He dreams of that day in the room. Hours stretching out endlessly with Silva draped over him, his hand in Bond’s hair.

He dreams of the time on the island. Imagines what it would have been like if Silva had fucked him there on that chair as he so clearly wanted to.

Bond wakes in cold sweats, throat closed tight, can’t breathe. The worst nights are the ones where he wakes with his own spunk drying upon him. Even in his dreams, Silva has gained the upper hand.

_“Surrender, James . All I want for you is to surrender.”_

* * *

After M’s return and the circulation of the video Mallory had suggested that Bond have a visit with one of MI6’s psychiatrists.

“Is that necessary?” M asks.

“He doesn’t have to, of course.” Mallory glances at Bond.

“Then I’d prefer not.” Bond says flatly.

They didn’t push it.

* * *

Bond doesn’t want to talk about it, but occasionally he wonders if he talked, would the dreams disappear? He doubts it. Silva is one of those true ghosts who refuse to leave. He will remain dancing along at the edge of Bond’s memories for eternity and he’s not even dead yet.

 _Soon_ , Bond promises himself, _soon_.

He thinks about how it will be to kill Silva. He sees it as he sleeps, the light going out of Silva’s eyes, that faint smile finally fading from his lips. Inevitably though, the violence in the dreams turns to sex as Silva’s body wraps around his. Silva’s tongue, lascivious and haunting, sends tendrils of heat down Bond’s body every time he licks his skin, until Bond is squirming and gasping under his touch.

* * *

As he showers, Bond’s body tenses against the spray. Inexplicably, he knows he’s being watched, yet he can’t find the camera when he turns to look. There’s only tile and water, but the shiver at the back of his neck won’t go away.

There’s a knock at the door. Bond wraps a towel around himself to go answer it. The bellhop gives him a package. Bond tips him and closes the door before opening it. It contains a bar of soap. Imported from Milan, blood orange scent. This note reads: _I want this scent on your skin._

Bond stares at it before dropping it in the bathroom sink. He takes his knife and hacks the bar into slivers, until the scent fills the air, suffocating him.

His phone rings. Bond hesitates, and then picks it up.

“You didn’t care for my gift?”

“Not particularly.” Bond exhales. He can hear the amusement in Silva’s voice.

“James, James…the next gift is rather special. Please treat it with more care.”

“I’ll throw it in the Thames very carefully.” Bond promises.

“Do that and I’ll shoot that pretty little housemaid who’ll deliver it. Her name is Annalise, and she works the morning shifts. She seems very nice.”

Bond digs his nails into his thigh. “What is it?”

“All in good time.” Silva chuckles. “Patience is a virtue, James, but it is not _your_ virtue. You’ll simply have to wait.”

“And then what?”

“Then follow the instructions.” Silva pauses. “That is, in fact, your talent.”

The line goes dead.

Bond lies back on the bed, towel slipping down loose around his hips. How long will Silva play this game?

He can’t help wondering what it would have been like to work with this man at his side in his prime, to have Silva as a partner. He can only imagine. Lethal. Dangerous. Exhilarating. Above all, unforgettable.

* * *

In the morning there’s a small elegant case delivered to his hotel room. Bond studies it before finally opening it.

Resting on the black velvet inside is a polished silver cock ring. Bond’s jaw clenches. He snaps the case shut. He wants to hurl it across the room, but he remembers the girl’s face. _Annalise._

He picks up the note. _I want you to wear this for the day, until I give you permission to take it off._

“And if I don’t?” Bond says aloud, half expecting Silva to answer him out of thin air.

He already knows the answer. With a sigh, he opens the case again.

He eases the ring over his cock, settling it in place. As he gets dressed his briefs press painfully against his ringed cock and Bond curses Silva silently. Unnoticeable to the world, Bond finds it nearly impossible to forget, knowing that Silva knows what lies beneath his suit.

He pulls on his jacket, buttons it automatically and heads out.

* * *

His cock nags at him the whole way.

* * *

When he arrives at MI6 headquarters, he’s summoned to Mallory’s office.

“I need you to fly to Rome for me.” Mallory finishes writing whatever he’s writing and slides it into a folder. “Deliver this to the embassy.”

“Am I your errand boy now?” Bond knows he should show more respect, or at least feign to, but today he simply can’t bring himself to care. Not with the weight at his cock. He doesn’t want to run Mallory’s errands. He wants to catch Silva.

Mallory sets his pen down. “Would you rather sit here and twiddle your thumbs?”

“No.” Bond says, then as an afterthought, “Sir.”

“Good.” Mallory seals the envelope and scrawls a quick name across the front. "Something troubling you, 007?”

“No, sir.” He wants to ask if M’s sent for him, but he can’t.

Mallory eyes him curiously, and Bond wonders whether he watched the video or considered it poor taste to do so. Probably the latter.

* * *

He doesn’t think about the destination of the errand until he’s at the airport. Metal detector. There’s a fucking metal detector. How could Silva have known Mallory would pick today to send him to Rome? Chances are it’s pure coincidence, but what are the odds, truly? His cock is stiff in his trousers; Bond resists the urge to adjust his jacket. It won’t help.

“Sir?” The guard prompts him to move forward through the security scanner.

“Give me a moment.” Maybe it won’t set it off, but as Bond steps through, he already knows. The machine beeps and they draw him to one side. The guard waves the wand over him carefully, halting quizzically at his crotch.

“Sir? Can you,”

“No,” Bond says sharply. “I can’t.”

“Sir, if you refuse to cooperate.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Bond mutters. “Call Gareth Mallory. He’ll deal with this.”

The guard hesitates, but takes out his phone. “I need to speak to Gareth Mallory, we have a situation.”

* * *

They finally reach Mallory, for which Bond is profoundly grateful. He doesn’t care to explain this to M even though he knows she’ll hear about it soon enough.

* * *

In record time, he’s delivered back to Mallory’s office and finds himself standing in front of the man’s desk.

Mallory hangs up the phone and looks at him. “I do hope you have a good explanation for this.” He glances at Bond’s groin for a quarter of a second before turning his gaze upwards.

“Silva.” Bond says at last. He could lie, but what’s the point?

“Pardon?”

“He’s sent me a one or two gifts over the last week. The last one came with a warning. Wear it or he kills someone.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I thought,” Bond shakes his head; he can feel laughter welling up inside him. “I thought I could get away with it without anyone knowing.”

“I don’t suppose you considered the danger.”

“I think I can handle it.”

Mallory raises an eyebrow. “I was not referring to your cock, 007.”

“Of course not, sir, sorry sir.” That would have earned him a smile or a reprimand from M, probably both.

“What do you propose to do?”

“Well, I’m not taking it off.” Bond’s tone is a little more forceful than he intended.

Mallory eyes him. “And if I ordered you to?”

“I’m not going to be responsible for another life.”

Mallory simply nods, folding his hands together. “What’s his game?”

“To fuck with me.” Bond says bluntly. _Literally. Physically_. He doesn’t say that aloud.

“Short term, yes.” Mallory says curtly. “What about long term?”

“To strike at M.” Bond’s irritation level is rising. He barely keeps the “obviously” out the sentence.

“So what if we take you out of the equation? He’d have to either pursue you, or move on to his long-term plan.” Mallory nods to himself.

“What do you propose, sir?”

“I’ll let you know.” Mallory reaches for his phone. “Go home, 007.”

Bond waits until he’s out of the office before murmuring. “I don’t bloody have one.”

They’re all looking at him as he walks through the offices. Even Q, who rarely looks up from his computer, gives him a pitying look. Bond resists flipping him the bird.

* * *

He goes to his hotel and waits. His cock is heavy between his legs. The weight is unfamiliar and uncomfortable, mocking him more and more with every moment. How much longer? He has a drink, and nothing, another drink and nothing.

He wants to tear it off him. He wants… Christ, he remembers how it felt when Silva sucked him off. The warmth of the man’s mouth. Bond’s cock thickens.

“Don’t you dare.” He warns.

His cock doesn’t listen, and now he’s aching for it. He's already sore enough from wearing the bloody thing all day, and now it's fucking unbearable.

There are moments, where Bond thinks, that he didn’t sign up for _this_.

He’s on his fourth drink, collar loosened, top button undone, when Silva finally calls.

“Oh, James. You’re so gorgeous.” The man’s breathless, or Bond wonders if he’s mistaken. Then he wonders where the cameras are.

He drinks a drink and winces. “Well?”

“Take your clothes off.” Silva orders quietly.

Bond cradles the phone against his chin as he pulls his tie off. “Why don’t you come here and do it for me?” He’s drunk enough that it’s a serious suggestion. What if Silva takes him up on it? They’d catch him, obviously. That’s Bond’s motivation clearly. Nothing else.

Silva chuckles, that warm, rich sound that sends warmth throughout Bond’s body until he’s suffused with it.

“Not yet, James. Not yet.”

He waits, Bond can hear him breathing over the line. So he starts to undress, piece by piece until he’s naked and his cock is bobbing upright and hard. He turns, unsure of how Silva is watching him, only certain that he is. “There.” His cock throbs. Automatically Bond takes himself in hand.

Silva sucks in a breath. He murmurs something low and harsh in Spanish that Bond can’t catch.

“Well?”

“So impatient.” Silva sighs. “All right, you can take it off, but James,”

Bond waits, tongue dry against the roof of his mouth. He desperately wants another drink.

“Think of me when you touch yourself.” Silva laughs, and hangs up.

Bond tosses his phone down on the bed. He eases the ring off slowly, wincing with each breath. His cock hurts, and he moans softly, tears stinging his eyes, as he does.

He pours himself another drink and stretches out on his bed. It doesn’t matter if he’s being watched any more. He fists his shaft, in quick, rough strokes, imagining it’s Silva that he’s choking.

Bond comes across his hand. When he can think again, he wipes the mess on his the duvet, resting his arm across his chest.

_Not yet._

So when?

He pulls the duvet over him and goes to sleep.

* * *

He wakes, head aching, a foul taste in his mouth.

For once there are no gifts waiting outside his door. Merely a message to report to M’s office immediately.

Bond showers, dresses quickly, and goes.

* * *

M looks at him disapprovingly when he comes through her doorway. “Why didn’t you tell me Silva was sending you presents?’

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear about it.” Bond murmurs.

“It’s my job to hear about it,” M says testily.

“Well, if you must know, the cock ring was a bit of a bitch,” Bond trails off when he sees the look in her eyes.

“He’s not going to let this go,” M says at last. “Take a few days off. We’ll look after things here. Go home, get some rest.”

“You sold my flat.”

M gives him a look, and Bond knows what she means.

* * *

It’s not home, but he goes anyway.

He goes intending to finish what he started when he headed for Scotland the first time. Before Silva, before those long drawn-out hours spent in that room. He’s fairly certain that Silva will kill him eventually. The question is how long will he take. Bond is certain Silva will take his time with the job.

So he has to kill Silva first.

* * *

He stops along the way to fill up the tank with petrol. Leaning against the car Bond takes out his flask and has a long swig of whiskey. This is an idiotic idea, though in theory it could work. If Silva does pursue him, Bond will kill him. Perhaps Mallory’s men will arrive in time, but most likely not. And then…

He takes another swig and keeps driving.

* * *

When he arrives at the house Bond goes from room to room aimlessly. The place is well-kept, orderly and cold, same as it ever was. The electricity is on, thanks to the groundskeeper, but there’s still an emptiness to the building that even light doesn’t help.

Bond finds a bottle of Scotch in the cupboard and drinks as the shadows of late afternoon fall across the house. He’s hated the house ever since he was little. He always hated that house. There’s a chill about it that’s been there long before the death of his parents. The rooms were cold, the floors echoing under his footsteps. At night when he was a child, he would have haunting, terrible dreams. He’d run to the door, trying to get to the hall where there was the light. The door was always locked. He wasn’t allowed out of his bedroom until the morning. And if he wet his bed, well, he was obviously only doing that to disappoint Nurse and Father and Mother.

As afternoon fades and the evening wears on, Bond builds a fire. He’s standing too close, letting the heat seep through him when he hears the first whir of the helicopter.

And then there’s the music.

Bond drinks and watches from the window as the helicopter lands and Silva emerges like a king, his men trailing behind him like his retinue. Bond checks his handgun, finishes his drink and walks out the door to meet him. His plan is very simple. Shoot Silva. After that, it doesn’t matter.

“Ah, the welcoming committee.” Silva beams at him. “Most courteous of you to meet me, James.”

Bond calmly raises his gun and fires. Only Silva dodges nimbly out of the way at the last possible moment. The bullet only grazes his cheek.

He hisses, laughing, as he raises his hand to touch the blood. “Very nearly, James. Very nearly.”

The next thing his men have Bond surrounded, pinning him to the ground.

In retrospect, it was not his finest plan.

The ground is cold underneath him and Bond can smell the fresh, wintry scent of the grass. Maybe if he’s lucky, Silva will simply shoot him here and now.

Fortune’s favor eludes him though.

“James,” Silva’s shoe ( _which happens to be very fine Italian leather_ , Bond observes) is next to his head. “You should have stayed in London.” He crouches down, his fingers stroking along the back of Bond’s neck fondly. “But I am so very glad you did not.”

Silva strolls on ahead while his men pull Bond to his feet and escort him inside. There’s a gun pressed to the small of his back. It occurs to Bond that he doesn’t particularly want to die. Not yet. Even after all of it, he still wants to live. He wonders if he’ll still feel the same when Silva’s done with him this time.

How long will it take M to realize Silva’s followed him after all? The cynical side of him (which, to be completely honest, is a fair portion of Bond’s character) wonders if this is all a ploy of Mallory’s to rid himself of an unnecessary encumbrance.

Bond honestly can’t decide which it is.

* * *

It’s a parody of the island scenario. He’s tied to a chair once again, only this time instead of being surrounded by computers, Silva’s surrounded by Bond’s memories. Silva strolls from piece of furniture to furniture until at last, he comes to a record player. He pauses there, running his finger along the needle.

Silva turns to Bond. “Of all places, why come here? Why did you come home?” 

Bond shrugs, as best as he can with his arms tied behind his back. “Nowhere else to go.”

Silva looks at him, eyes soft and knowing. “You could have come to me.”

“I hardly think you would have welcomed me with open arms.” There's a streak of blood on Silva's cheek from Bond's bullet. If only he had been a little quicker.

“You have no idea,” Silva breathes.

Bond shifts slightly, back uncomfortable.

Silva comes over to him, crouching in front of Bond. He smiles. “This is what I wanted to do on the island.” Silva pulls his shirt open once again and rubs at Bond’s nipple, smiling at its reaction to the cold.

He trails his hand down to rest on the bulge of Bond’s crotch before unzipping his trousers. Then Silva pulls Bond’s briefs down far enough, allowing his cock to bob free.

Silva traces Bond’s length with his forefinger. “What did you do with the ribbon?”

“Burnt it.” Bond says tersely. The cold is keeping him nice and listless, which seems to both amuse and displease Silva.

“And the ring?” Silva flicks his finger at Bond’s foreskin idly.

Bond tries to think back. “I don’t remember.

Silva smiles. “Yes, you were more than a little intoxicated, weren’t you? Not very professional, James.”

“Apologies.”

Silva gives his cock a light slap, “This won’t do. This won’t do at all.”

“Perhaps you should have kept the cock ring for now.” Bond says blandly and Silva laughs, leaning back and stroking his jaw.

“You always amuse me, James.” He continues teasing Bond’s cock, batting it back and forth until Bond’s finally erect. Sore, but erect.

“You should not have fucked that woman.” Silva tells him as he stands, reaching for the button on his trousers.

“And why’s that?” Bond asks. He keeps his gaze focused on Silva’s face.

“I don’t think you were worth it.” Silva steps out of his trousers, not wearing any underwear, and straddles Bond, his cock brushing against Bond’s.

Bond shivers at the contact and Silva smiles. “I don’t think she would say you were worth it at all.” He places two fingers on Bond’s lower lip. “Suck, James, suck as though you love me.”

Bond doesn’t bother replying; he simply opens his mouth. He sucks unenthusiastically, coating Silva’s fingers with his saliva. Silva lets him until he deems it enough and pulls them free. He smiles at Bond, all the while inserting his spit-slicked fingers carefully inside himself.

“It has been some time for me too.” He whispers to Bond.

“Why don’t you untie me so we can do this properly?” Bond suggests as Silva positions himself over the head of Bond’s cock. Bond’s tense as a tightly drawn wire.

“I think, not.” Silva sinks down upon him slowly, inhaling sharply as he takes Bond into his body. “You’re not well trained enough for that.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Training me?” It’s hard to stay focused when Silva’s invading him like this, but Bond does his best.

Silva rocks his hips, squeezing Bond’s cock with his body and Bond swears softly. Silva feels too damn _good_ , despite the possessive feel to his body, like he’s claiming Bond for his own.

“You are such a beauty.” Silva murmurs, cupping Bond’s face so he can kiss him. It’s a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, and Bond’s aroused even as a streak of repulsion shoots through him. He knows all too well the horror that lies beneath Silva’s mask. Last time, miraculously, he was able to put it from his mind. Now, he can’t think of anything else.

“James, James,” Silva chides, pulling back to slap Bond’s cheek. “Your mind is wandering.”

“Does it hurt?” Bond asks before he can think. His cheek stings.

Silva studies him, assessing the sincerity of Bond’s words. “Yes,” he admits at last. “Yes, it does.”

This time he pulls Bond’s head back by the hair as he leans down to lick across Bond’s throat before sinking his teeth into the man’s tender flesh.

Bond’s cock pulses inside Silva and he laughs, clenching round it. “That’s it, come for me, James.”

Silva licks across Bond’s chest before biting Bond’s right nipple hungrily.

Now Bond comes; he can hold back no longer.

Silva leans in as Bond’s body moves under him. “I killed that woman and left her body in the bar where you picked her up. They will find her soon. What’s left of her.”

Bond freezes at the words, but Silva keeps licking and biting until Bond’s throat is raw and he’s soft inside the man. Even then it feels like an eternity passes until Silva finally comes, shooting across the front of Bond’s trousers.

He sits back, gazing at Bond thoughtfully. “Nothing to say?”

“You didn’t have to kill her.” It’s banal, but it’s all Bond has.

Silva shrugs. “True enough, I suppose. But too late now. Next time, think more carefully before you stick your cock into something.” He winks, climbing off Bond.

“Oh, I will.”

Silva dresses quickly, tucking himself away. He straightens the collar of his jacket, and brushes an invisible speck of dust from his lapel. He looks impeccable once again.

Bond’s stuck sitting there, the bites across his body stinging like hell; his cock is still hanging out, spent and sad.

Silva comes over to him, placing a hand on the arms of the chair. He leans in until Bond could almost kiss him.

“Do you think she’ll trade for you?” Silva whispers. “Will she want you when I’m through with you? Or will she fail to even recognize her own little rat?” He smiles, teeth sharp and hungry in the cold, “We’ll have to wait and see.”

He gives Bond’s cock one last pat before pulling his briefs up once more. He fastens Bond’s trousers briskly. “So much to do.”

“Oh?” One of the henchmen comes up to Bond and he eyes him warily.

“We are going to play a little game.” Silva tells him as the man unties Bond from the chair.

He stands, rubbing his wrists. “I thought that’s what we were already doing.”

Silva pats him on the cheek. “New playing field. New rules. Here it is, I am going to turn you loose. If you make it to the stag, you are free. If you do not,” Silva leans in to nuzzle his neck, and Bond’s fingers clench, but Silva pulls back before he can raise them. “Then you are mine.”

His henchmen escort Bond to the door.

“Run little rat.” Silva tells him.

Bond runs.

* * *

Only to trip in the dirt as pain shoots through his legs, cramped from sitting still so long. Bond can hear their laughter as he pushes himself up, running on. He can make it.

If he does, Silva will keep his words. Bond has to believe that.

He runs across the moors of his childhood. There’s smoke rising in the air behind him, thick and acrid. Bond doesn’t stop. Let them burn the house. Let them. Silva’s not taking anything from him by doing that. Nothing at all.

He runs and he’s halfway across the ice in the dark before he hears the sickening crack. He’d forgotten the water. It had been so long. How had he forgotten?

The water’s freezing, rushing up to greet him as the ice beaks and he sinks beneath the surface.

‘At least that’s done,’ Bond thinks and lets the water take him.


End file.
